Italian Love

A young american girl is experiencing the dream of her life to become a famous fashion designer in the fashionable Milan. What she doesn't know is that the legendary italian love will strike her too.

Submitted:Mar 23, 2013
Reads: 479
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Italian Love

"Was this the right way?"

I was strolling down the narrow alley of a
side street in Milan. I could feel the cool droplets of flavored
ice cream dripping down my hand, indicating that the hottest
hours of the day were approaching. With one quick, swift
movement, I slurped the edge of the cone. Mango and raspberry, my
favorites! Their rich combination of tropical tastes melted in my
palate, leaving behind a scrumptious flavor that made me a
glutton for another lick. The sweet and sour delicacy slightly
brushed my lower lip like a tender caress, sending a sensation of
serenity all through me. Absolutely delicious!

My only source of coolness in that
scorching heat was rapidly ending, but I didn't really mind
because I could easily find another Gelateria. Here in Italy,
ice-cream shops were like McDonalds back in the States;
Everywhere!

The narrow alley, outlined by a row of
buildings that seemed to stretch to the horizon like an infinite
stoned ocean. Unlike the modernized center of the city, this
petite side street was surprisingly antique. There was something
about these buildings formed by taupe blocks and elegant archways
that jumped from one to the next in a perfect curve that aroused
in me a sensation of comfort and tranquility. As I walked down
the lane, it seemed as if I was walking through time. Everything
of that tiny road reminded me of a bygone era; From the miniature
doors, to the restricted stone cubes that were perfectly posed on
the ground as if they had been destined to form a sort of
mysterious mosaic.

I had walked for about fifteen minutes
down that alley, when I finally looked up the street name to
check my position. "Via Fiume" I said out loud, trying to
convince myself that it was the right way, also if, deep down, I
knew that I was lost because I didn't recall this name amongst
the other directions.

I checked the time. Suddenly, all of that
calming atmosphere emanated by the vintage buildings turned into
an oppressive feeling. They were already slight spaces between
them, but now it felt as if they were now crushing on my
direction, imprisoning me between their stoned constructions.
With a concerned glance, I stared forward, hoping to find a way
out of this intricate maze of roads. Quickly, I had only a
quarter of an hour to reach the Young Stylers School of Milan.

Since I was young, I had had an immense
passion for designing clothes. I remember passing hours and hours
cutting and stitching different outfits. First for my dolls, then
I began to use my younger sister as a model for my future dream
designs. For me, designing clothes was a way to express myself.
Just like an artist with his paintbrushes and palette, or a
writer with his ink and pens, I would grab my needle and thread
and release my inner sensations of joy that were bursting inside
me like uncontrollable fireworks on to a piece of fabric. My
hands would frantically be engaged with something and my sight
would never abandon the masterpiece, I hoped, that I was
creating. Everything around me became still as I went on and on
stitching and threading and threading and stitching as if a
thick bubble surrounded my concentrated figure that was hunched
like an old's man over the fabric. My parents, realising the
intensity of my passion, helped me to follow my dreams by sending
me to a fashion school abroad. And what better place than Milan,
the capitol of fashion?!

Now, though, everything was going to
vanish like a burst bubble because I was going to be late. Taken
over by a stoke of hysteria, I began to ramble aimlessly. I
turned right onto another side street, that proved to be exactly
equivalent to the one that I had just traveled. I turned again
right, on what seemed to be an additional copy of the first two
streets and it was. On the third turn I realized that it was
pointless. I was definitely, unequivocally lost.

Suddenly, through the loose neck of my shirt, I felt a coolness
trickling down my back like a frosty nugget of ice that was
smoothly gliding on my delicate skin. I shivered. My gaze then
turned upwards towards the sky instinctively. What was once an
ocean of immense serenity was now rapidly fading, turning into a
malignant sky covered up by masses of turbid clouds.

As if the situation couldn't get any
worse, a rumble of thunderstorm roared through the atmosphere,
followed by a violent flash of light that lacerated the various
shades of gray. Like tears, the thick raindrops come pouring down
striking me. Great, now I was late and wet and...oh no my
designs! I swiftly scrambled underneath a ledge of the building
that served as a shelter and waited.

I stared gloomily at the narrow alley that
was being moistened by the dribbling of the rain. Luckily it has
quieted a bit, leaving a tender drizzle that alighted like the
fall of a leaf on the damp surface. Silent peace flooded the
atmosphere, interrupted only by the slight ticking of the rain
droplets on the wet asphalt. I inhaled deeply and a strong odor
of wet earth penetrated in my lungs. Exhaling, all my torments
subsided.

Finally, seeing that the storm had
placated, I decided that it was time to carry on walking. I was
about to step off the protected area of the roof, when I felt a
gentle touch holding on me. I whirled around and all I could hear
was my heart thumping like a galloping horse. Standing in front
of me was a tall, broad young man of about twenty-five years old.
His damp, dark locks fell gracefully over his intense blue eyes
that were gleaming like diamonds towards me, contoured by thick,
black lashes. His fleshy mouth grinned, revealing a set of
perfect white teeth. He said something, but I couldn't
understand.

"Parlo inglese" I mumbled, without taking
my eyes off his. With a heavy italian accent he offered to help
me find the Young Stylers School since he had an umbrella and I
was completely wet, just like he pointed out. Classic excuse to
tow a girl, but this time I didn't mind, after all the serene
always comes back after a summer storm, in one way or another.